Her Mother's Daughter
by plotbunnyprey
Summary: A Princess/Reaver fic inspired oddly enough by the difference in combat animation in Fable 2-3.
1. Chapter 1

Reaver and the Queen had never really done more than tolerate each other, each finding the other distasteful, but useful. The Queen had a strong aversion to pistols, having been shot point blank by one in her childhood and almost dying. Her sister _had_ died. Also, she never could forgive Reaver for shooting Barnum, one of the few people left who had always been kind to her, and still remembered that there had once been a young girl called Rose. Reaver on the other hand, wasn't overly fond of magic, or muscle-bound women who could smoosh him with her arms alone, never mind her hammer, and he had absolutely no use for sentiment or generosity. He did, however have a use for a Monarch acquaintance, despite the fact that she also sadly had all the above-mentioned qualities.

Reaver was only vaguely aware of the Royal children as they grew up, seeing them in glimpses far and few between in his visits to the Palace. He had seen both Prince and Princess as babies, small uninteresting wrinkled things, and only a handful of times over a dozen or so years, each time receiving the same impression of dark hair, dark eyes, and rich clothes, only a little bit bigger than the last time. The Princess and her older brother had grown up with tales of their mother's Heroic past, the feats she achieved, the villains she defeated, and the Heroes she met. These tales were told to them by their mother, Jasper the butler, were whispered by the palace staff and the constant flock of nobles present in the castle. And occasionally the royal children would be regaled by Hammer or Garth themselves, during their visits to the Hero Queen. Reaver was always kept away from the siblings, whether for their sake or his, only the Queen knew.

One spring day, leaving the palace after his latest Reaver Industries proposal, he was stepping lightly down the garden steps in a rather good mood at having just secured a rather large amount of gold for himself when a youth came barrelling out from a thicket of trees in Reaver's direction. Sidestepping neatly, Reaver watched, amused as the youth tumbled down the shallow steps, landing in an undignified mess at the bottom.

"Brother!"

Reaver turned at the call, and stepped back to watch as another child came running out of the thicket. The youth rolled over, stood up and started to brush himself of, muttering to himself at the sight of grass stains on his sleeves. He looked about 16, thin and dark with a strong nose and straight low eyebrows. The girl hurried over, lifting her skirt and stepping daintily down the steps. She was about 10, with shining brown hair carefully done up, petals and leaves clinging to the braids.

"Brother, are you ok?"

Logan, for that these were the royal siblings was obvious both in their looks and bearing, looked up and seemed to notice Reaver for the first time. He shifted between the man and his sister, glaring up at him suspiciously.

"Who are you, and why are you in our garden."

Reaver pouted exaggeratedly. "Oh, I'm hurt. After all we've been through, has your dear Mother never mentioned me?"

The young princess tilted her head to the side and looked at him long and unblinking. Reaver was a little taken aback by this. He was used to being stared at, after all, as handsome and famous as he was, but not usually by little girls with flower petals in their hair, and not usually so...thoroughly.

Then the Princess broke into a sunny smile, and dipped an impeccable curtsy, saying brightly "Hello, Mr Reaver, Sir."

Grinning, Reaver doffed his hat and swept into an elaborate bow. "Hello, young Princess." Straightening, he put his hat back on and gave Logan a wry smirk, drawling "recognition at last."

"Mr Reaver, can I see the Dragonstomper? Please?"

Reaver eyes shot back to the Princess, eyebrows raised high in surprise.

"Why ever would I show my prized Dragonstomper to a child? You'd likely shoot yourself in the foot, and then I'd be in all sorts of trouble with your dear Mother, something I'd really rather avoid, if you don't mind. Now, I have businesses to run and gold to amass, so toodle-oo children." He waved his fingers in their general direction, and resumed his way down the steps and towards Bowerstone Industrial, slowing only as he passed Logan to say "Oh, and I wouldn't make a habit of falling down stairs, your Royal Majesty, it is rather undignified. Ta-ta now." A final glance back showed the Princess looking not crushed as he'd predicted but, surprisingly, determined.


	2. Chapter 2

The years passed and the Princess grew from child to youth to young lady. Somewhere between child and youth the Queen died, and Logan was crowned, and Albion remained as it had been. Reaver found dealing with Logan much the same as dealing with the old Queen: what Logan lacked in Hero powers he made up for in good intentions and life went on for King, Princess, and Reaver Industries.

It was autumn, and Reaver had been told he must wait for his audience with Sir Walter, who was managing the kingdom while King Logan was off on some sort of quest or visit or thing, Reaver didn't care so he hadn't paid it any attention. Well, bedamned if he was going to sit like a chump in the hall with the peasants! So he had wandered the palace, looking at paintings and tapestries. He was smirking up at an early portrait of the Queen, remembering the first time she had walked through the door of Bloodstone Mansion. He was aware of servants passing, and was surprised when someone paused, then came to stand next to him. He glanced to the side and was surprised to see it was the Princess, now a pretty young lady in a rather marvellous blue dress.

"Well hello there, my dear. Did you want something?"

She looked up at him, and he was amused to see that her eyes were still full of the same determination that had been in them the last time they had met. She grinned, a rather predatory grin for a fifteen year old. "Yes. I want you to follow me. I have something to show you."

She turned abruptly and walked lightly down the hallway. Reaver, intrigued and with nothing better to do, followed.

The Princess led him into a long courtyard, and gestured to a bench. He sat throwing one leg across the other, and resting his hat and cane on the bench beside him. The Princess went to the nearer end of the courtyard, and pulled a leaver. There was a thump and some mechanical groaning, and plywood figures started popping up at the far end of the courtyard. Curious, he looked back at the Princess. She was standing upright, a small but well crafted pistol in her hand. Glancing at him, she raised it, and gestured for him to watch the targets. Reaver cocked an eyebrow at her and obliged. The targets reminded him somewhat of the old Westcliff shooting range, but better quality, and with more complicated movements. A series of quick shots echoed in the courtyard, a brief pause in which Reaver could hear the familiar soft clicks of reloading the pistol chambers, and a second rapid barrage of shots rang out. He glanced back at the Princess, who pushed the lever back and beckoned Reaver over. She stood, an expectant gleam in her eyes and smoking pistol still in hand as he approached. Reaver crossed his arms and raised his eyebrow at her.

"There. I won't shoot myself in the foot, I've been practising, and besides which, Mother died so you can't get in trouble with her. Can I see the Dragonstomper now, please?"

Reaver laughed.

"Sorry, my dear, but the answer is still no. While you may not shoot yourself in the foot, it's likely your mother will come back from the grave and bring the Shadow Court back with her just to vex me if I let you handle my weapon. It's not for little girls, or young ladies, even if they are princesses." His emphasis on weapon brought a light blush to her cheeks, but she didn't flinch at the obvious double entendre. Her brow furrowed in thought, then she held out her hand toward him, palm up.

"Look," she said, holding her hand out further, "even if I am a princess, Sir Walter says I 'sure as heck don't have pampered lady's hands', Sir Walter says, I have fighter's hands, like my mother."

Reaver took the proffered hand gingerly, unsure what to do with it, but never one to turn a pretty lady down. It was a fine boned and delicate hand, and the back felt smooth in his palm, but her palm was worn, the fingertips of thumb and forefinger were thick with burn-callus, and the fall of lace from her sleeve revealed a slender wrist with a pleasing play of tendons and flat muscle as she shifted her fingers uncomfortably. He would know that sort of hand anywhere, as he had two like it, though much further developed from much harder and lengthier use.

Reaver cleared his throat and released her hand. "yes, yes, very nice and all, but I believe you are still a young lady, and thus as aforementioned, unsuitable. I must be going, I have an appointment to not attend. Tatty-bye."

He sauntered back to the palace, picking up hat and cane on the way. In the doorway he stopped and looked back. The Princess was looking down at her hand, slowly clenching and flexing it. She looked up and Reaver was unaccountably pleased to see she still had that determined gleam in her eyes. He threw her salute, and a smirk, and turned back to the shadows of the hallway.


	3. Chapter 3

King Logan, in Reaver's estimation, had been much improved by his sojourn. A sudden need for _more_ meant that he handed control of Bowerstone Industrial over to Reaver Industries completely, and Logan's loosening of laws concerning workplace ethics meant that Reaver had much more leeway in employer-employee negotiations. Profits had never been higher. Unfortunately some protested the current conditions. People could be so ungrateful. A runner had just delivered the message that there was a mob forming outside the factory, and Reaver was heading there now to deal with them. He stepped out onto the balcony, and rapped his cane on the railing. The peasant continued his fervent rallying, and Reaver was ignored. He tapped his cane on the rail again, his irritation growing rapidly as a balding man rambled on about "standing up to Reaver". He levelled his pistol, and fired, laying the ranting peasant out flat, though not dead.

"But lying down is so much easier than standing up. My dear friends, in order to raise moral, I am offering prizes to the most deserving workers. The rules that will govern what I like to call the 'Reaver Team Spirit Award' are these: firstly, any worker that so much as murmurs another complaint will be shot; secondly, any worker who take more than a three second break will be shot; thirdly, any worker who breaks any other rules I have yet to formulate will, you guessed it, be shot. You may return to work now. As you know I'm a generous man, and likely to start handing out prizes right away, so go on, shoo, be off with you, chop chop."

He gazed impassively down at the crowd as they dispersed, wondering if they knew how lucky they had been, that he had only shot the one man, and not a different worker each time. It wasn't as if they were difficult to replace, but he just could not have been bothered with that sort of thing at the present. As he mused to himself on the pros and cons of shooting some random workers as they scurried away, Reaver's eye was caught by a flash of blue in the gateway.

It had been four years since her display in the courtyard, and the Princess had most definitely become a woman in that time. Reaver recognised her instantly, and not because she was shadowed by the moustachioed hulk Walter Beck. Though she was wearing boots and breeches, all linen and leather, she still held herself with the same elegance as if she were wearing the finest of silk gowns. She caught his gaze and held it, and though her in her eyes was the same determination as always, they had lost their innocence. Reaver found he liked the change. He looked her over critically, assessing, grinning appreciatively at all her lovely new curves, but was stopped short at her shoulders. Poking over one was the unmistakable handle of a hammer. He looked quickly down to make sure, and yes, she had a pistol slung low on her hip. He looked back at the hammer, frowning, and wondering why it was so displeasing to him to see the Princess with her mother's favoured weapon. He started to turn away, but was caught by the expression on her face. Her eyes were grim and determined, but she was gazing steadily at him with her lips curved in a knowing smile. Though he was still for some reason annoyed about the hammer, the smile elicited a smirk from him in response. The Princess looked about to start toward the factory when Walter grabbed her by the arm and started leading her away, talking rapidly at her in a low voice. She turned to follow, throwing a final challenging grin up at Reaver, who lingered on the balcony to watch her walk away, particularly appreciative of her breeches being a tad on the tight side, though sadly obscured by the obnoxious hammer slung on her back.

Hours later, sitting in his study at his mansion, it occurred to him that he had heard that the Princess had in fact disappeared from the palace a few weeks back, and that the king would likely pay handsomely to have her back under his control. He mulled over the idea of hunting her down, and decided against it. After all, the only thing better than conquest or money was anarchy, and the Princess loose in Albion would likely cause a great deal of that. Reaver looked up at the portrait of himself. The near future promised to be very entertaining, and all he had to do was be there and play his part, and he could make a tidy profit out of it too. Reaver leaned back in his chair and grinned.


	4. Chapter 4 Part 1

First, a belated disclaimer: the Fables and their characters all belong to Lionhead Studios

Secondly, Thank you so much to those who reviewed, your comments are very much appreciated. I hope you continue to enjoy reading, I'll enjoy writing it for you :D

Reaver had expected the rebels to break into his home eventually and had planned accordingly, making all the necessary preparations for taking live captives. Had he not had plans requiring bait, he would have just shot them all on sight. As it was he had decided that the leader of the Bowerstone Resistance would make an excellent addition to the evening's entertainment for his next soiree. He made all the necessary arrangements; rigging up one of his larger cages in the foyer, fully stocking all the rooms of his Wheel of Misfortune and even placing a few complimentary items of use in chests outside the door of each room – one didn't want anything ending prematurely, after all.

Reaver was thrilled when not one but two masked ladies entered his mansion. Double the ladies, double the fun. He wasn't surprised in the least to see that the Princess had allied herself with Page and the Rebels. Reaver felt a momentary twinge of concern for Her Royal Highness, but immediately dismissed it, and turned his thoughts instead to the delightful prospect of seeing her shoot at live targets instead of wooden ones. He smiled to himself, and strode quickly to the foyer to greet them.

Reaver stepped out into the room as the cage was being lifted, and the Princess was clinging to the bars as it rose. His brow furrowed at the sight of the hammer slung over her shoulder.

"My, my, my, what busy little bees. So Industrious. So committed. So bloody annoying. When will you people learn to enjoy life?"

Page glared up at him. "I'll enjoy killing you. Does that count?"

"Oh you're just full of spunk, aren't you. A true heroine. You must be lightening under the bedsheets." He turned slightly to address his guests. "And now as promised, the evening's piece de la resistance. Another piece of the resistance." He pulled the leaver that uncovered his Wheel of Misfortune, and addressed Page and the Princess once more. "Voila! Do try to put on a good show for my guests, won't you?"

The Princess dropped from the cage while he spoke, landing neatly without so much as wrinkling her voluminous white and gold skirts. Page gaped at him incredulously. "Show? You expect us to entertain you?"

Reaver leered at her, enjoying her outrage. "But of course. It's just a game, my little sweet."

He swept his arm in a wide gesture. "The Wheel of Misfortune. It's rather simple. I spin, you die, we watch. Really," he chuckled, "it's...it's a riot."

He glanced at the Princess, who had so far been silent. Behind her fox-mask, her eyes shone with anticipation, and he could see by the tell-tale twitching of her lips that she was trying very hard not to grin. Happy to oblige her, he tapped his cane to spin the Wheel. The hand whirred and stopped.

"Why, no less than the most unsightly, most obnoxious creatures ever to contaminate this world. Super." Slipping through the connecting door, Reaver entered the Hobbe-room, and as the ladies came through the doorway he announced "you will laugh, you will cry, you will have your sinews gnawed upon. Bring out the hobbes!"

Reaver observed with interest the differing tactics of the ladies. Page preferred to stay near the entrance, alternating between rather clumsy pistol work and swordplay. The Princess strode confidently into the middle of the room and waited, an exquisite pistol drawn and ready. As the Hobbes came out of the doors all around her she turned constantly, but never moved more than a few steps in any direction. She fired rapidly, never missing, and taking out most of them with a single shot. The Princess didn't merely fight, she performed. She stepped lightly around like she was dancing, her footwork was impeccable. The Princess killed the hobbe Shaman with a flourish, emptying her chambers while holding up one hand in Reaver's direction and counting off the shots on her fingers, one, two, three, four, five, looking straight at him the entire time. She flashed him a wide grin before quickly turning to Page while reloading, and shooting her hobbe opponent in the face.

Reaver smiled down at the ladies standing amidst the hobbe corpses in their masquerade finery. "One almost feels sorry for the repugnant beasts," he quipped," then one shrugs and waits for the next piece of carnage." He turned back to the door, and quickly returned to the foyer. He found he was anticipating the next round exceedingly.


	5. Chapter 4 Part 2

Back on the foyer balcony, looking down on the ladies from his rather pleasing angle, Reaver spun the wheel again, declaring "like the tales of my greatest conquests, the wheel simply demands to be spun. What delicious fate will it deliver this time?" The hand whirred, and stopped.

"Ah. It's just not a real party without the elegant shuffles of these gentlemen. So hallowed, and yet so hollow."

As Reaver strolled to the Hollow Men-room, he tried to predict what tactics the Princess would employ this round, as he knew that hollow men tended to swarm. He scowled as he thought of the hammer. Both Hammer and the Queen had used similar techniques dependant on strength alone. Lift and smoosh, or swinging from side to side and using their meaty arms to swiftly change directions mid-swing. He found the style repugnant, not to mention terribly dull. Impatient, he strode onto the balcony, and the ladies were barely through the door when he called out "let the tearing of limbs commence. Chop chop."

Page stayed near the entrance again and the Princess also lingered, eyes darting around to the blue wisps. She drew her pistol to begin with, again shooting rapidly and taking out most targets with a single shot, slowly making her way further into the room. When the second wave of hollow men spawned, she found herself surrounded. She ducked and rolled towards the nearest gap, going down with her pistol out, coming up with her hammer poised. Reaver found that he was actually holding his breath in anticipation, and made himself to resume. The Princess lifted the hammer high up and far back, and let it fall. Reaver couldn't look away. The Princess used calculated angles and the momentum of the hammer, and the result was, well, beautiful. She spun to the left, taking off the heads of two hollow men, and allowing the hammer to bounce off the helmet of a third, crushing it as she did so. The hammer now angled up, and to the right, and she spun accordingly corkscrewing through another four hollow men as her skirts twirled around her legs. She whirled back and forth, crushing hollow men in graceful bloody swathes, then lowered her hammer with one hand and finished off the last few with her pistol. Breathing heavily, she hoisted her hammer to her shoulder, and looked up at Reaver almost shyly. He grinned at her and drawled "what a heartbreaking performance. The poetry of life and death was unmistakable. And then you had to spoil it by not dying." He gave the Princess a conspiratorial wink as Page turned her back, and was rewarded with a radiant smile.

The hand whirred, and stopped.

Reaver took the presented opportunity to further irritate Page, and said to her "Ah yes, I paid these bloodthirsty mercenaries out of my own pocket. With money I took from the people, but still, they better not disappoint." He noted with satisfaction that the Princess seemed eager for the next round and not in the least concerned about the people and their money.

To start off the mercenary round, Reaver quipped "their literacy may be lacking, but they do have a way with swords," and was gratified to hear a swiftly smothered chuckle from the Princess.

The mercenaries lacked the numbers of the hollow men and thus the Princess stuck with her pistol through the round. She used the mercenaries to advantage, showcasing her talents. Reaver could see now how her efforts with the hammer had benefitted her in general combat: her movements were precise and controlled, requiring no effort; after all a pistol weighs only a fraction of what a hammer does. Reaver watched admiringly as she killed one of the mercenary leaders with a flourish where she tossed her pistol in the air over his head, twirled around behind him catching the pistol and levelling it in a single graceful movement, and as the mercenary jumped around in surprise, she neatly decapitated him with a single shot.

He was grinning broadly by the end of the round. "As it happens I was bending the truth about having paid them, it was strictly a no kill no deal arrangement, so you've saved me a small fortune. Bravo!"

The Princess grinned back at him triumphantly. Page was not as pleased, and stormed back into the foyer. As he re-entered the foyer, Reaver was met by a seething Page glaring up at him. "Enough games Reaver!"

He smirked down at her, doubly amused by the fact that while Page was so clearly getting angrier by the round, the Princess was just as clearly(to him anyway) enjoying herself.

"Oh, but they're such fun! And my guests do enjoy fun." He tapped his cane on the floor. "Time for another spin."

The hand whirred and stopped.

Reaver almost clapped his hands in glee. "Oh now this is a very special round. Wait till you see what treasures I have in store for you next..."


	6. Chapter 4 Part 3

In the next room Reaver continued. "I met these delightful creatures in a rather inhospitable land, far from the turgid green of Albion. I do love to bring two cultures together. And see which one dies first."

The sand furies erupted out of the ground. The Princess was cautious against hitherto unknown opponents and started with her preferred pistol. She was obviously unused to enemies as agile the furies, but swiftly adjusted and found an effective tactic in first ducking around behind a fury and using a hammer strike to knock her flat, then whipping out her pistol and firing rapidly at the sand fury while it was prone, swiftly reloading, and readying her hammer and darting around once more. She took a few blows, but nothing worse than a bloodied lip, and killed the one who had kicked her in the face with a deliciously nasty flourish: the Princess systematically shot each of the sand fury's limbs, which upon being hit promptly snapped into an unnatural and painful looking angle, before shooting the fury through the torso. Reaver nodded approvingly. Page was almost pressed against the door, waving her sword ineffectually at the nimble furies, and it fell to the Princess once more to finish of their opponents.

At the end of it, Reaver was greatly pleased by the expressions on their faces. Page looked close to tears either from anger, exhaustion, distress or some mix of the three. The Princess was practically luminous, her eyes were shining and her cheeks had a most becoming rosy flush from exertion and excitement. She unconsciously ran the tip of her tongue over her bottom lip, assessing the damage. Reaver found the gesture captivating.

"Wasn't that utterly enthralling? Of course, you should be ashamed of yourselves, treating foreign visitors in such an unsociable manner. Oh well."

Back in the foyer for the final round, Reaver sighed resignedly. "You holier-than-thou idealists, always thinking in the simplest, most binary of ways. But I quite agree. This game grows tiresome. And my guests, they grow...restless."

As Reaver was speaking his butler Barry was attempting to flirt with one of the more volatile of his lady guests. The hand of the Wheel whirred and stopped, and as if on cue, the lady in question, who had taken offence at the poor attempts on her person, transformed into a balverine and tore poor Barry's throught out. Reaver shook his head at her. "Oh dear. Do you brutes have any idea how hard it is to find good staff? Still, one might as well enjoy the show. What's the use of a secret society without a little secret, after all."

The entire party, excepting his own self, promptly turned into balverines and leaped down to the foyer floor. Page was stunned and horrified and was fighting accordingly. The Princess was unfazed and promptly opened fire on the nearest balverine. Reaver watched and offered comments to both sides of the combat which the Princess obviously found quite amusing, from the mock-offended "That is no way to treat my guests", to the semi-serious "I hope you're finding them amusing to fight, I'd hate for you to be bored."

When the balverine-guests lay scattered and shattered around the foyer, the Princess pulled off her mask and grinned at Page, saying dryly "this is the last party I take you to." Page, unimpressed, made no reply.

Reaver sighed exaggeratedly. "Well I must say you've made me out to be a somewhat poor host. Rather rude of you to dispose of all my guests."

Page glowered at him ferociously. She raised her pistol and shouted "Now it's your turn, Reaver!" and fired. Reaver smirked and almost lazily deflected the bullet with his cane.

"Oh, my dear girl, why not stop all this bickering? The three of us could go up to my quarters and have a private party."

Page glared at him, disgusted and offended, and gestured towards her companion. "Do you have any idea who this is? It's Logan's sister. The Princess."

Reaver had recognised her instantly of course, mask and all, and was rather annoyed that anyone would think him so thick as to not have recognised the Princess. He didn't miss the flicker of irritation that crossed the Princess's face at Page's words, and easily guessed the cause. He couldn't resist rubbing it in.

"The King's sister, a bona-fide Hero...Well I wouldn't dream of coming between siblings." He turned to go, with a wave over his shoulder at the Princess, still talking as he left. "Well that's not strictly true, there was that time...anyway, best of luck with the whole revolution lark. Perhaps we'll meet again one day. Tatty-bye."


	7. Interlude  'Reaver's Unmentionables'

After a lifetime of never leaving the castle, the Princess thought questing was amazing. Half the time she didn't give a damn about who or what was being asked, it just felt so good to have purpose and freedom. At first she had been reluctant to lead a revolution against Logan, who was still her beloved older brother no matter what he had done. He had always tried to do the right thing and she firmly believed that Logan was still trying to do the right thing, though his constant desire to protect her from the world meant he wouldn't tell her the why of anything: why he had gone to Aurora, why he had come back so sad and grim, and why he was systematically turning the Kingdom against him. The Elliot thing...she'd have serious words with Logan about that after she'd deposed him. The Princess didn't want to rule, but the more she saw of the kingdom and her people the more she understood that Albion could never fully prosper under her brother, as it couldn't under her mother. She was the one who could bring out the Kingdom's full potential, and if the world intended her to rule, then she would damn well do it properly.

The Princess strolled through Millfields towards the large and familiar pink mansion. She smiled to herself recalling the night a fortnight ago at Reaver's party. She hoped he had been sufficiently entertained. Her smile turned into a grin at the thought of her purpose here. She had been hailed by an absolute loon as she passed through Bowerstone Market and offered a quest – to retrieve a pair of Reaver's underwear, and not too fresh either. The Princess didn't know whether to laugh at the obsessive woman or pity her, but she had accepted the quest as it gave her a reason, however questionable, to return to Reaver's mansion. She had been startled when the woman had called it "Reaver's old mansion, where he used to live" and was very curious as to where he was living now and why he had moved.

She walked through the unmanned gate and paused by the statue of Reaver. She reached up and touched the white marble Dragonstomper for luck.

She walked slowly up the wide stairs, pushed the curiously unlocked doors carefully open, and entered Reaver's Manor.

The wide entrance hall was exactly the same as she had last seen it, down to the mess of streamers on the piano and the empty glasses and bottles strewn around. He had clearly left straight after the party, not even bothering to clean up, which seemed odd to her as she had always had the impression that Reaver would be meticulous in every aspect of his life.

The Princess walked slowly into the room on the left. It had a low smouldering fire in the hearth, and was otherwise dim and empty but for chairs and portraits and a strange mechanical-birdlike sculpture. The room on the right had a long low table and the spoiling remains of fruit and pies. She stopped at the sight of one of Logan's posters stuck to the wall, and felt suddenly sad for her big brother, and what she was about to do to him. Her resolve to do it however, never wavered. She smoothed the tattered poster flat, then left the room and headed upstairs. Upon entering the dining room she gazed for a while at the far door, smiling once more at the memories of dancing with the hollow men and basking in Reaver's subtle-yet-obvious approval of her. She unconsciously ran the tip of her tongue over her bottom lip as she remembered the sand furies. She had appreciated the challenge. Shaking her head to clear it she tried first the closed door on the left, but it was locked and wouldn't budge. She frowned at it, annoyed and curious, but turned resolutely to the open door on the right. Up the stairs there was yet another un-openable door, and the Princess stopped and frowned again. It was almost as if the doors were set to lead her in a particular direction. Uneasy, she followed the hallway to a large, sparse bedroom. She gave a cursory rifle through the cupboards, looking for a switch, button or lever. She finally found what she was looking for in the far corner of the room: a panel depressed, and slid away revealing another hallway lined with portraits leading to a second, more lived-in looking bedroom complete with chains and cages. Again she gave only a cursory look in each cupboard having spotted the required item at once, neatly laid out on the bedside table. She pocketed the potion and the gold that she found, picked up the underwear, and left, leaving the door open behind her for the rabbit and the chickens to escape.

Her foray into Reaver's apparently former home, far from answering questions had given rise to more. Why had Reaver abandoned his house, where was he now, and had he known she would come back and what she'd be looking for? It was just all too...neat. She reached down, chuckling to herself, and touched the small square of paper in her pocket. It had been left neatly on top of the underwear, and had on it written in a bold hand a single word: enjoy.


	8. Chapter 5

*The opening description of Reaver was taken from this fantastic piece of art http:/ whaticantdo. deviantart. com/ art/ Drunk-Reaver-187804025 (just take out the spaces)

The morning after the party Reaver awoke on the floor of his first bedroom. He squeezed his eyes shut in denial, sighed, and opened them again. His first sight was a wine glass on its side in front of him, sticky red dregs spilling out. He flexed his fingers and patted himself down, assessing. He was still wearing gloves, pants(albeit partly undone) and coat, but his shoes and shirt were no longer on his person. His hand reached his holster, still strapped to his left leg, and he bolted upright. He scanned the room and saw the grip of his Dragonstomper .48 poking out of his bedside drawers. He rose and stepped over several bodies in various states of undress, running one hand through his hair and rebuckling his belt with the other. He retrieved his pistol and slid it into his holster with a small sigh of relief.

Reaver exited his bedroom and made a slow circuit of his home, taking stock of the damage. It was filled with the usual post-party debris: glasses, bottles, streamers and undergarments. Also blood and bodies in the foyer. He chuckled to himself, remembering the Princess and her exceptional entertainment. He wondered what state she was in this morning. Reaver pulled open the front door, and walked down to the small pontoon he had at the edge of the lake. He rolled up the cuffs of his trousers, pushed his coat-tails behind him, and sat, dangling his feet in the water. Reaver considered the future and what he wanted from it, both immediately and slightly more long term than immediately. He knew a revolution was now unavoidable, and with the Princess at its head it would be successful without a doubt. She was nothing if not determined. Reaver touched the grip of the Dragonstomper with a smile. He was unconcerned about the revolution itself: Reaver Industries was now synonymous with Bowerstone Industrial, and would continue to be so no matter how many monarchs Albion went through. Reaver decided to keep himself and Reaver Industries neutral and out of the conflict as much as possible, though admittedly he would much prefer to meet the Princess on a regular basis than her brother.

He leaned back and gazed across the water at Millfields. Pretty, idyllic little suburb populated by powdered and silk-clad imbeciles. He'd been here for a while now, and was becoming bored with the never-changing area. Reaver hopped up and went back inside, leaving a trail of wet footprints leading into his sitting room. He paused in the doorway frowning, and slowly approached the statue in the middle of the room. He reached out a hand and rested it on the bird-like head. The smooth metal was cold to the touch, even through his gloves. Reaver's thoughts shifted to the strange desert temple he had taken it from, and the thing that had lived there. As he was practically a creature of darkness himself, and having the protection of the Shadow Court, the Crawler hadn't threatened him overly much, but he had felt the Crawler's maliciousness and hunger, enough to make even him shudder. Filled with a sharp sense of forboding, Reaver suddenly wanted nothing more than to _get out_. He went up the stairs, swiftly making calculations as he went. He passed through his first bedroom, picking up only his hat from the floor where he had woken up, and went to his second bedroom. He shrugged off his coat and pulled a fresh shirt out of a cupboard, hastily jamming his arms into its sleeves. He was halted by the sight of a single pair of his briefs left in one of the cages and grinned broadly remembering that particular night. He retrieved the briefs, folded them, and left them neatly on his bedside chest of drawers and, smirking, added a quick complimentary note for whoever happened to find them. Scooping up hat and coat he returned to the first bedroom, where he was unsurprised to see not a single guest had awakened yet, they had much less tolerance for spirits than he and had therefore gotten much drunker. He negotiated bodies to find his boots, cane, and keys, and left the Manor, locking all the doors on the way out except those which must needs stay open for the exit of his slumbering guests.

He stopped only briefly on the way out to don his boots and make himself presentable before walking out the door for what was likely the last time. As he set out for Bowerstone Industrial his thoughts turned once more to the Princess. Next time they met she would be the Queen. Reaver grinned, and walked a little faster.


	9. Chapter 6

Reaver was standing in front of the throne, a familiar place to him. Standing in front of a young and lovely Queen made for a refreshing change, and it was one he would be glad to get used to. At the moment though his thought were focused on guessing and second guessing her motives. The old Queen and Logan had both been painfully easy to figure out, but he could make neither heads nor tails of the current monarch. He knew she was determined above all else, that she took pleasure in combat both for the use of her skills and the joy of besting adversaries, and that she could be quite ruthless in a practical sort of way. He had never known her to be sentimental, not even over her own mother's death or the execution of her lover. Granted he didn't really _know_ her at all beyond a handful of encounters, but his instincts were sharp and the encounters, though brief, had shown him much of her character. He was jolted out of his reverie at the end of Page's impassioned plea for the rebuilding of Bowerstone Old Quarter, the area hardest hit by the revolutionary battle. Reaver smiled, and spoke.

"Your Majesty, the Old Quarter was indeed devastated by your glorious triumph, but as it's name subtly implies, it was old. The cost of rebuilding would be a colossal waste of money, and the people who called its decrepit shamble of streets and houses their home are better off without it. Besides, one must question what they have to offer our society. Why build homes for the inept and unskilled? I recommend you reject Page's proposal and keep the money for more deserving endeavours."

He was not surprised when the Queen elected to rebuild, but was still puzzled as to _why_.

He sighed, saying "Oh I suppose there may be something to be gained by rebuilding part of the city. It shows our sense of industry has not yet been dampened. Very well, your Majesty."

The Queen stepped gracefully down from the dais and headed for the door. She paused as she passed Reaver and said softly "come to the War Room this evening." He glanced at her, eyebrow raised in question, and nodded. "Of course, your Majesty."

Evening came, and Reaver made his way to the War Room. It was a large room, an assortment of tables and bookshelves, chairs and lounges surrounding the centrepiece map table, a wonderfully rendered scale map of Albion and Aurora. The Queen was standing at the map, her back to the door. Through the open door opposite Reaver could see the treasury, much more resplendent than he had seen it for many years. Reaver strode into the room, and seated himself on the lounge to the right, one leg over the other, hat and cane next to him. He looked up at the Queen, who was studying the map intently. He sat impatiently for a few minutes, but the Queen continued to study the map. Reaver broke the silence.

"Well now. I imagine you have asked me here to order me to cease my depravity and think of more...compassionate methods of filling the royal coffers?" The Queen glanced at him over her shoulder. She straightened, and beckoned him. Reaver rose and followed as she led him down the steps into the treasury room. The Queen gestured at the mountain of gold. "As you can see, I have the treasury well under control. Not that it's full, it could always be fuller. At the moment there is approximately five million gold pieces in that shiny pile." She turned and gave Reaver a teasing smile. "Care to guess again?"

He smirked and leaned in close. "Another attempt on my weapon then?" The Queen grinned and reached towards him. Her fingertips trailed slowly down the fur collar of his coat, down his side, and to the holster on his thigh. She drew the pistol and held it up, admiring the way the gold reflections glinted off the barrel. She turned and walked back to the War room, running her fingers over the Dragonstomper, admiring each intricate detail of the legendary gun. Reaver stepped quickly after her, a little shocked at her audacity, and at himself for allowing it.

The Queen stopped at the map and turned, leaning against the edge. She smiled at the Dragonstomper, a sweet smile full of affection. It was most becoming. She looked up at Reaver, and held the pistol out for him to take back. "It is a lovely weapon. But you were closer the first guess." Reaver took the Dragonstomper and slid it home, not taking his eyes off the Queen. She sighed. "My subjects are fools, Reaver, so blinded by prejudice that they cannot appreciate common sense. Your suggestions are sensible, but no one sees it. All they see is greed instead of practicality."

She sat on the lounge, leaning back and rubbing at her temples tiredly. "I didn't want to be Queen, but since it seems I have no say in the matter, I'll at least do this thing properly. I will have a kingdom united, prosperous, and whole. To do that, the people must believe that I care about them, that I am charitable and incorruptible, because that is what they want." Reaver sat down next to her, crossing his legs and musing on her words.

"So you want me to continue my depravity." He grinned. "My my, how indecent of you." The Queen gave him a relieved smile. "Yes, exactly. After all, I can only be incorruptible if there's someone trying to corrupt me in the first place." Reaver lifted an eyebrow, asking "and profits? You have gold now, but being charitable requires, well, _charity_." The Queen laughed. "Reaver, how do you suppose I got five million gold in the first place? Questing isn't exactly profitable you know, sure you get the odd gold and gems, but real income?" She leaned over, like a little girl telling a secret.

"I Invested. I _own_ Brightwall, down to the last pie stall. I also have property in Bowerstone Market, and all the mansions of Millfields save one. All the rent I get goes straight to the treasury." She grinned, triumphantly. "I have five million gold, courtesy of my loyal subjects. They are going to pay for their own schools and rebuidling and whatever else they think up, as well as paying for the massive army that I'm going to have to raise to fight the Crawler."

Reaver looked at the woman in front of him, ruthless, cunning, and flushed with the excitement of victory, and he couldn't help but feel admiration.


	10. Chapter 7

*Thanks again to all reviewers, you have given me so much encouragement. I hope you keep enjoying the story.*

The Queen leaned back against the Map and smiled. "Good. You see it. For Albion to survive, the people need to be united, and if there is no discontent, there are no discontents." She glanced at Reaver. "What do you know of the Crawler? I know you've been to Aurora because of your Sand Furies, and I know you've been in the temple from the bird-machine in your sitting room." She paused, and faced Reaver expectantly. Reaver considered his words carefully.

"I have been to Aurora several times over many years. I have been through the Shadow Temple only once – suffice to say I had to deliver something for an old acquaintance, and the Temple path was unavoidable. The Crawler is a particularly nasty piece of work, and I wouldn't have anything to do with it if I were you. But if I am not mistaken, this invasion you mentioned is the Crawler, is it not?"

The Queen nodded solemnly "Yes, the Crawler is coming to Albion, and I don't intend for him to leave in one piece. Our mutual acquaintance Theresa informs me that I, and I quote, am _the only one that can defeat the coming darkness_." She sighed and opened her collar, unhooking the shoulder pieces from her bodice. "Has she always been so..."

"Stubborn?" Reaver supplied dryly, "Vague? Unhelpful? Manipulative? Yes, I believe she has been. The longest, and by far the most enjoyable conversation your mother and I ever had was me listening while she ran a tirade about the lady. Now I am usually not the most attentive of listeners, unless it's worth my while, but that rant was thoroughly entertaining. I think your mother came to me to vent her frustration because the other two would have been shocked beyond comprehension. Oh, the language she used. I don't know where she learned it, but rainbows would be put to shame by her colourful expressions."

Reaver chuckled at the recollection of one of his two fond memories of the old queen. He watched the Queen for a moment, comparing the old to the new.

The Queen had set down the elaborate collar and was tugging at the back of the bodice, a small frown of concentration furrowing her brow. Reaver smirked and stood, walking softly across the room. The Queen was so absorbed in her task that she didn't notice him come up behind her. Reaver felt a little flattered, knowing what the instincts of a Hero were, that she would let down her guard so much in his presence. Of course it was a rather dangerous move on her part, leaving herself so...vulnerable. He leaned forward and said "Allow me, my dear." The Queen started and blushed at being taken by surprise, but obligingly stood with her back towards him. Reaver ran a gloved hand down the bodice, looking for the fastenings. They were cunningly hidden under one of the seams, and he worked his way slowly from the top down, undoing the little gold hooks. "Really," he said murmured, "how do you manage with such complicated clothing. You had really much better just go without from now on." The Queen turned her head to look at him over her shoulder, and gave him a smirk in answer to his own. Reaver chuckled. "Voila!" He opened the last hook and the Queen stepped away, peeling off the bodice and placing it neatly on the chair with the collar. She gave a relieved sigh, and ran her hands down her blue silk blouse. "Oh that's much better. Thank you." She sat on the lounge, moving his hat and cane to the table adjacent, and patted the cushion next to her. Reaver obligingly sat. "So," the Queen began, "Now you know what I want you to do and why. Any problems?"

Reaver considered the woman before him for a moment, and all that he had seen of her in her life. He leaned back and said "My dear, has anyone ever told you how exceptionally unlike your mother you are?"

The Queen stared at him, eyes wide.

"Evidently not."

"Only about as often," said the Queen, "as they call me by my name."

"Ah." Reaver stood, and stepped past her to pick up his hat and cane. The Queen rose and followed him to the door. "Well, my dear, it is a fine plan to bamboozle the entirety of the kingdom into a false belief in their monarch, and I shall endeavour to meet all your expectations in my attempts to, well, _tempt_ you." He bent and whispered two words in the Queen's ear, and then, just because he could, gave her a single thorough kiss.

The Queen stood in the doorway, unsure whether to be pleased or outraged, as Reaver strolled jauntily down the hall with a final lift of his hand and a smug "Tatty-bye!" called back over his shoulder.


	11. Chapter 8

**ZOMG a wild update appeared! I know it's been far too long since I last did a chapter, but thank you to all the people who read and reviewed in the meantime and gave me encouragement to keep going with this. Have some more Reaver(who I don't own :P) and I'll get some more chapters up here asap. And don't worry, those two words he said will be revealed soon! :D Love to you all, and enjoy.**

The ship lurched and wrenched sidelong down a swell, ropes and sails creaking in protest. The sky was clear and the sun was shining but the winds were brutal, the sea was jagged, echoing the monumental struggle surrounding Albion. It was visible on the horizon, a smear of green above endless blue, wreathed in a malevolent shadow that seemed to be swooping and crawling at the same time. A few tendrils of shadow had reached as far as the ship, snaking through the wind. One touched the tip of the foremast, sliding down its length and across the foresail and jib, making its way greasily through the air towards the figure perched on the bowsprit. The tendril wriggled and slunk, inching towards the man. It lifted and reached to touch his cheek, and stopped short: a gloved finger and thumb had pinched the end of it, halting its advance.

Reaver looked down his long and elegant nose at the shadowy thing. Smirking, he inhaled leisurely then blew the shadow away downwind. The ship, his _Wanton Wench_, lurched again. Reaver slid down from the bowsprit and sauntered back to the quarterdeck. The man at the helm was wrestling with the wheel. Reaver tutted at him. "Really now, that is no way to treat a lady." The man jerked, slumped forward, and slid down to the deck with a smoking hole where his left eye had been a moment before. Reaver stepped over the body while holstering his Dragonstomper, and gently laid a hand on the wheel. He caressed a spoke affectionately. With Reaver at the helm the _Wanton Wench_ instantly ran easier, sliding smoothly up each swell and cresting them with a dainty shudder, her nose dipping briefly before rising again. Reaver smiled to himself. He hadn't realised how much he had missed the sea. His smile vanished as instantly as it had appeared. He looked at the horizon, at the shadow. His eyes were keen and could see the faint flashes of dusky orange as things exploded in the swirling darkness. Reaver scowled ferociously at the murky vortex. He had developed an unyielding loathing for any shadow-related thing. He was however a businessman, and business came before personal preference when there was an advantage to be gained. Immortality for instance. His..._associates_...from the Shadow court had summoned him for his yearly tithe, insisting this year he come in person so as to prevent him from taking up arms against their foreign cousin, currently intent on killing his Queen. The corner of Reaver's mouth lifted in what might have been a smirk, maybe even a smile. The Crawler had no idea what it was getting itself into. Reaver had utter confidence in his Queen, and didn't doubt for a heartbeat that she would obliterate the Crawler completely, but he did rather regret not being able to be by her side to watch first hand. What a glorious sight it would be.

The many years he had spent pirating meant that guiding the ship required no thought at all for Reaver, and as such his thoughts drifted, following his gaze towards Albion and the Queen. His mind skimmed through recollections of the past year. What a year it had been. Voices echoed in his head: Paige, her flawless bosom heaving with wrath threatening to shoot him again, while the Queen smothered a grin at the futile threat. His own voice, despairing at being so repeatedly turned down and declaring his determination to find something to which the Queen would say _yes_. The Queen, cheeks flushed with the fine scotch they'd shared one evening sitting on the floor in her treasury...

_The Queen had rummaged in the riches and dragged out two mismatched golden cups to drink from, he had brought the liquor. She was laughing and flipping gold coins into a vase perched precariously at the top of the gleaming pile. Reaver eyed the last of the bottle, and knocked it back in two swallows. He was not remotely tingly yet, though the Queen was a giggly as a young girl. Noticing the now empty bottle she had frowned exaggeratedly and tutted at Reaver, who lifted a brow in bemusement. Rising, she stepped lightly if crookedly over to a chest in the corner, from which she extracted a bottle and about-faced, grinning widely. "Something you might appreciate" she said as she bounced over and handed him the bottle. He glanced at the label and both his brows lifted in surprise. "Yellow Fairy," He drawled, "I haven't seen a bottle of this in years." The Queen shrugged, replying "It's been in the treasury since my Mother's reign. I've been saving it." Reaver opened the bottle with a deft twist and poured a healthy measure into each golden vessel. He lifted his in a toast, and the Queen mirrored the gesture. He raised an eyebrow questioningly "What are we toasting my dear?" _

"_Me."_

_Reaver laughed. "Bold. I like that in a woman. Very well Majesty." They touched the tumblers together, and drank. The Queen licked her lips. "Mmm, tastes like marshmallows." Reaver watched her mouth appreciatively, recalling the first time he'd seen that particular gesture. Had it only been a few months ago? His brow furrowed. "My dear, how old are you?" The Queen looked up in surprise, and then laughed. "Most ungallant, sir! A gentleman should not ask a lady her age." Reaver smiled lazily, leering at her in his most lecherous manner. "Ah, but I'm no gentleman. Haven't you heard? I am a dastardly rogue, the most notorious rake ever to walk the turgid green of Albion. Nobody's virtue is safe from my corruption." The Queen laughed again, flicking droplets of liquor playfully in his direction. "True, true." She smiled shyly. "I'll be twenty-two tomorrow." Glancing up, she burst into laughter. "Reaver! Is it that shocking? You should see your face." Her laughter faltered and she peered at him concernedly. "What's wrong? You look...sad?" Reaver blinked and chuckled. "I'm just a little surprised my dear. I confess I am not the best at keeping track of the passing years, they all seem so...fleeting. I did not realise how young you are."_

A dash of cold salt water brought Reaver out of his reverie. The waves were growing. He spun the wheel. He wondered how the battle was going. He could almost smell the smoke, feel the heat and the thrill. Reaver laughed at himself. Being all wistful, like a schoolboy who would rather be outside shooting beetles in the field than at his desk having angles drummed into his head. He would be back in Albion soon enough and it would be battered but alive like it always was. She would be there too, the Crawler's head mounted on a spike and a cocky grin across her face, waiting for him to make her say yes.

Reaver smirked. Bring on the angles.


	12. Interlude  Invasion Day

The dream had been an old memory of happier days, easier times. He had been teaching his sister to swim, supporting her tiny body in the water, murmuring instruction and encouragement, smiling as she screwed up her face in frustration, hair tangled and wet and stuck to her cheeks. She stopped to catch her breath and clung to her big brother, wrapping her arms around his neck. He smoothed her hair from her face and smiled. "You're doing good. Well. You'll be so good at swimming soon even the mermaids will be jealous." The small girl shivered and puffed out her cheeks. "I want to be good _now_, brother. I want to be as good as you so we can beat the mermaids together." Logan laughed and slung his sister over his shoulder as he waded back to the shore of the lake. "These things take time. You have to want them, and work at them. Earn them. Nothing is free," He held her upside-down and tickled her stomach, making her shriek and wriggle, "not even for Princesses." Logan sat her on a rock and wrapped her in a soft yellow towel, waving away the attendant who stepped forward from the shade of a tree. He picked up the damp bundle and started back towards the palace. By the time he reached the steps she was asleep on his shoulder, and as he gently brushed a brown curl from her damp pink cheek, he swore he would do anything to keep his baby sister from harm. _Anything._

Logan opened his eyes. A hand was smoothing the hair back from his forehead. He sat up. His sister was sitting on the edge of the bed. He scowled at her. "Sister, what are you doing here? Shouldn't you be at the Palace?" She puffed out her cheeks, so like the dream that his breath caught in his throat. "I wanted to see you. As a sister seeing her brother, not as a Queen seeing one of her Generals." She reached out tentatively and touched a fingertip to the scar above his lip. "This...is from Aurora isn't it. You never talked about it. You never told me any of it." She looked at him sadly, taking in the various other scars on his torso. "Why didn't you tell me anything, brother?"

Logan caught her hand and looked at it. It was worn and callused. She'd worked for everything she had. He'd taught her that. He looked at his baby sister, not quite grown up but ruling a kingdom anyway. "I just wanted you to be happy and safe." She smiled sadly at him. "Oh Logan, you big stupidhead." The childhood taunt brought a smile to his lips. Gods, how long had it been since he'd smiled? She reached for him and pulled him close, wrapping her arms around his neck. She whispered "don't you dare get killed today. We'll beat the Crawler together." Logan tentatively returned the embrace. "How can you have so much confidence in me, sister? After all I've done?" He felt her grin. "Because you're my big brother. Stupidhead." She hopped off the bed and tossed his sword belt into his lap, still grinning. "Now, get dressed. We have a kingdom to save."

...

Logan was exhausted. His men were exhausted. They'd been fighting for their lives and their kingdom for hours. The battle was raging all around him, smoke and bullets, and flying blood and shards of glass, apparitions in windows and over all of it the mocking voice of the Crawler telling him he'd fail, that the Queen would fall and he couldn't protect her. Logan payed it no heed, words were wind, and he could see the Queen up ahead revelling in the battle. He sliced and parried and fought his way to her side just as she stepped into a square and a wall of transparent shadow blocked the way behind her. He knew this type of barrier from the Temple, knew that all he could do was watch as the Crawler forced its way into Walter, using the man as a meat puppet to fight the Queen. Logan watched, his heart in his throat, as the Queen screamed her rage at the shadow-walter-crawler-thing. She was glowing, blue-white wings made of light unfurling from her shoulders and infusing her attacks with magical, Heroic strength. She was beautiful in her wrath and tears pricked Logan's eyes at the sight. It was only a matter of time before she had crushed the Crawler completely and the barrier dissipated, and all that was left of the invasion that threatened the kingdom was a battered but triumphant city, and a young woman cradling a dying man in her arms. She looked up at Logan's approach, tears and sweat mingling on her cheeks, brown curls tangled and sticking to her face.

"Logan...he...he's dead. I killed him."

Logan knelt next to his sister, and held her as she cried for the man who had died and the kingdom that had lived.


	13. Chapter 9

The statue of Walter gazed off into the distance somberly as the dark smoke from the six gun salute wreathed around his ears. The Queen fought back a grimace at the sight. This stone man was not anything like Walter. She missed the easy laughter, the smile full of pride, the deep and rumbling exclamation of 'balls!'. She stood silently through the remembrance ceremony, accepted the comments of those in attendance: wrinkly, fantastic old Sabine, Ben Finn in his new regimental, Page and Kalin and even Jasper had come out of the Sanctuary to pay his respects to his old friend. Logan, wearing his royal garments, had moved back into the Palace at his sister's insistence. After she had spared him, Logan had moved into the barracks and lived with the soldiers as one of them, spending his free time on the streets of Bowerstone helping those who needed it and teaching at the school. Though there were still those who regarded him with suspicion he was by and large a Prince of the people now, forgiven and even loved. He was even being courted by a woman, a young widow by the name of Sarah whom the Queen had escorted once to her husband's grave. Logan had escorted her there a few times, and now he escorted her to dinner instead of a grave. The Queen smiled. They suited each other, both so quiet and serious. She was happy for them.

Finally she was alone. The Queen went to the balcony railing and perched on top of it facing the ocean, her legs dangling. She gazed out over the sparkling blue. She put her hands on her lower back and arched, her spine crackling. She sighed, tucking one leg up and resting her chin on her knee. She pulled a creased and raggedy bit of paper out of her pocket and held it, running her thumb over the folds. She recalled finding the note in the war room after the battle, reading it for the first time streaked with ash and blood and victory. She smirked, running the words through her mind, and as always it was like he was standing behind her, just out of sight, speaking to her in that easy drawl.

"Greetings, your Majesty. I do hope your battle against the dark forces so intent on destroying our way of life went well. It would be such a disappointment to find you all dead when I return, for yes, I must take my leave now and attend to a matter of a somewhat personal nature. It is a regular appointment of mine, and one that grows more tiresome with each passing year. Perhaps I will tell you more about it one day. Until then, allow me to say that it has been a privilege to serve you, and I eagerly anticipate doing so again in the near future. Tatty-bye! Your friend and loyal attendant, Reaver."

The Queen chuckled, out of warmth rather than amusement. It had been a long three months since the Invasion, and Albion was doing just fine, but she was so. Damn. Bored. She missed Reaver, his sly observations and sarcastic jibes, his crooked smirk and his real, full smile that she had only ever seen when they were alone. She missed the spark in his eyes when he looked at her, that spark that was part approval part respect and part _something else_ that she was a little afraid of and so she tiptoed around it, flickering at it like a snake tongue, testing and tasting to see if it was acceptable, but too wary to commit to action. The Queen laughed at herself for a fool. She was the damned Queen of Albion, not some timid little milkmaid. But Reaver was...well, Reaver, unlike any of the boys or men she knew, probably not like any other man in the whole world. He had thrown her for a loop and kept her on her toes ever since the night he had whispered in her ear and kissed her. She closed her eyes remembering the tickle of breath on her earlobe, and those two most precious words "goodnight, Rose" and the shock of hearing her name and being kissed all at once and _damn_ if it wasn't the best kiss of her life, before or since.

The Queen laughed at herself again, and stood up on the rail, tucking away the note and stretching. She sucked in a slow deep breath, cupped her hands around her mouth and yelled towards the ocean as loud as she could

"BAAAAAAAAAAALLS!"

"Well now, that's not very _Queenly_ behaviour."

The Queen lowered her hand and clenched them both tight.

"Will you be there when I turn around, or are you just in my head?"

"Have you been fantasizing about me, my dear? _Do_ share."

The Queen slowly turned. Reaver was there, smirking up at her, as if he had never been gone. She hopped down from the rail and crossed the distance between them in three quick steps. She tentatively raised a hand and ran her fingers through the black fur of his coat before resting them lightly on his chest. She lifted her chin to look him in the eye, and backhanded him across the face as hard as she could. Reaver raised a gloved hand to his reddening cheek, and looked her in the eye, an eyebrow raised in question. He opened his mouth to ask the question but was cut off as the Queen grabbed a double handful of black fur and pulled him down, kissing him as hard as she could. A few moments later she pushed him roughly away and stepped back. Reaver rubbed his cheek, a bemused smirk on his face.

"Quite the welcome, your Majesty. Such scandalous behaviour will delight the gossipmongers." He tilted his head, and the Queen looked in the direction indicated. A gardener had been clipping hedges, but was now frozen mid clip, with his jaw somewhere around his ankles. She looked back at Reaver and laughed. "Let them gossip. You, mister, have some explaining to do." Reaver bowed a little bow and offered his arm. "Shall we go inside then, my dear?" The Queen smiled and slipped her arm through his.

As the pair sauntered inside, headed for the War Room and sofas and a fine stiff drink, the gardener dropped his shears and bolted for the servants quarters as fast as his legs would take him. He burst through the door red-faced and out of breath, and a score of faces turned towards them. He grinned a big toothy grin at them "You lot will never guess what I just saw..."

**Finis...for now. I have a sequel in mind(and I'll get to writing it asap), but this wraps up **_**Her Mother's Daughter.**_** Thanks so much to everyone who followed, and reviewers are my most favourite people ever. Couldn't have done it without you guys! :D **

**P.S. Oh, and would you guys like a spin-off about Logan?**


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